Lotto Lang Syne
RYAN MERRIMAN — WRITING SAMPLE Lotto Lang Syne I started seeing Kyle at the Inn Cahoots bar shortly after the Cavs fired Mike Brown. God, the first time I saw him, he was just a scrawny, twenty-something-year-old kid. By the time the Browns had fired Eric Mangini, he came to the bar at least once or twice a week, and we had small talk. By the time the Indians fired Manny Acta, he came to the bar almost every day, as he got laid off as a teacher and had more free time. So we spent that extra free time bitching about Cleveland sports. Actually, I just bitched and complained. Kyle didn’t know too much about Cleveland sports, but he knew enough about Progressive Field. “Let me tell you something,” he would say. “I have been to Progressive Field, and the Hot Dog Races are intense. Onion always appears to have a shot, but then Ketchup just pulls away, which is crap.” He was at least interested in what I had to say about sports, that by the time the Cavs rehired Mike Brown, we had gone to watch the Indians play the Red Sox and White Sox. Kyle didn’t say much about the game, other than when something big happened, but he said enough about the Hot Dog Races, hot dogs, and beer. Even though we went to the games and always met up at the bar, it was still surprising to see him that one Saturday at Parmatown Mall. As I walked towards J.C.
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